Her hands moved with a young woman’s grace but they carried the memories of harsh prairie winters and sun drenched days. How many times I watched them smooth unseen wrinkles from her grey woolen skirt and coax silver wisps of hair back into place. When my grandmother Mary thought of me did her hands remember the shape of my face?
They rest over her heart now just as they did when she watched my hands glide over piano keys: The echo of her heartbeat in my heart. She was a wife, a mother, a grandmother and a writer. Her hands were strong.
http://www.theheadsoffice.co.uk/. The prompt for this week was ...Mary thought....and the genre chosen was non-fiction.